Magic Mirror (The Georgia Lee Maxwell Series, Book 1)

by Michaela Thompson

  I glanced at Perret. He was leaning against the book case, leafing through an issue of Good Look. I wondered how he’d react if I said what I wanted to say, that I considered paying for a news story even tackier than pleated plastic rain bonnets, and that while I lived I would never do such a thing. Instead, I said, “It might be arranged. I can’t exactly promise.”

  “But I’d be in the story? My name?”

  “Sure. Absolutely.”

  I could see she wasn’t going to press the money issue. Glory was what she wanted. I got out my notebook, flipped to a clean page, and said, “Go ahead.”

  She looked gratified. Her moment had arrived. She leaned forward and started to talk.

  Jane’s Romance

  “You knew Lucien Claude,” Jane said.

  “That’s right.”

  She paused for a moment of what I presumed was silent respect for the dead. Then she said, “Wasn’t he the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen?”

  “He was good-looking.”

  “Bruno introduced me to him, out at that antiques stall Lucien had at Port something. The minute I saw him I thought, ‘This is for me.’ Bruno’s O.K., you know? He’s really spiritual. But this guy was outstanding.”

  “Did Bruno have business with Lucien Claude?”

  “I guess. They talked in French. While they talked, I stood there thinking, Wow.”

  Jane’s face was a moony tribute to the toothsome Lucien. She continued, “So that night, all of a sudden Bruno tells me he’s going out of town the next day, and so—”

  “Wait a sec. Where did he go?”

  She shrugged. “No idea. He’s been full of business, but he never tells me anything. Besides, I was thrilled he was going. I thought, Great. The coast is clear.” Her face fell. “Little did I know, huh?”

  “So, Bruno went out of town…”

  “He left the next morning. As soon as I was sure he was gone, I called Lucien and asked if I could see him.”

  I’m no shrinking violet, but I found this brassy. “What did he say?”

  “His English wasn’t great, but I gathered he was busy.”

  I imagined Lucien fielding calls from lovesick Jane and the mirror thieves at the same time. “Where did you reach him?”

  “At his place. I’d found out he lived on the Rue Vavin.”

  She hesitated, glancing at Perret. He was sitting now, still leafing through Good Look. “Aren’t you afraid he’ll get bored?” she asked.

  “Oh, he never gets bored. Never.”

  “He’s so cute.”

  “Thanks. Now, you say Lucien told you he was busy.”

  She nodded. “I was wild. I thought, when will Bruno ever go away again? I meditated, I chanted, but I couldn’t put Lucien out of my mind. So I decided to go over to his apartment and convince him in person.”

  “You’re persistent, aren’t you?”

  “You can’t let rejection get to you. Sometimes men put up a big front of saying no when they really mean yes.”

  I’d have to remember that. “What did you do then?”

  “His building has one of those dumb code locks, and I couldn’t actually get in, so I found a phone booth and called him. I said I was in the neighborhood and wondered if I could run by.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I thought he was going to refuse again. He even sounded kind of pissed off. But he stopped and thought about it, and then he said why didn’t I come on up.”

  I felt a pang of envy, I admit it. Down South, we were taught to be relatively subtle. Who would’ve imagined those guerilla tactics would work?

  Jane slumped down on the sofa. “I was so happy when he said that,” she whispered, and her pale blue eyes filled with tears.

  I got up to get her a tissue. The box was in the bookcase, at Inspector Perret’s elbow. When I passed him, he gave me an intense look and an almost imperceptible nod of his head.

  After a modest interlude of sniffling, Jane continued, “He had a gorgeous apartment: white walls and sofas the color of mushrooms. He had a big balcony, too. I was standing there looking out, and he came up behind me and sort of nuzzled my neck. That drives me wild.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.” It really does.

  “And he said, ‘What are we doing? This is crazy. What will Bruno think?’ And I said something like, ‘Screw Bruno—’ ”

  She puddled up again at the memory of this magic moment. I sneaked a sidelong glance at Perret. He was peeling the foil wrapper off a chocolate bonbon. He must’ve had it in his pocket.

  “I thought I’d gotten really lucky,” Jane went on plaintively. “He was the most fabulous kisser. He gave a new meaning to ‘French kiss,’ you know? And then, just when I thought we were moving in exactly the right direction…”

  She exhaled a long breath, which seemed to deflate her totally. She had slid so far down on the sofa that her beret was knocked askew. “Something went wrong?” I asked.

  “You might say. He started talking about some appointment he had. He said we’d have to get together another time. And he asked me to do an errand for him, because he was running late.”

  I leaned forward. “An errand?”

  “Yeah. He had an envelope, and I was supposed to take it and leave it next to the fence at the Luxembourg Gardens. He gave me specific instructions. The fence is divided into sections. I was to go to the fifth section past the gate at the Rue Vavin and stick this envelope down inside the fence between the concrete and the bushes. I figured maybe it had to do with buying drugs.”

  The thought didn’t seem to disturb her. “So you did it?”

  “I didn’t want to leave, but he kept promising we’d get together soon, and he said he had someplace important to go. I walked over to the Luxembourg and did just what he said. I didn’t peek into the envelope, either. I was so absolutely snowed by him.”

  The location she’d described was undoubtedly the place where Lucien had been killed that night, reaching toward the fence. But nothing had been there. I’d looked myself.

  “That’s when the upsetting part started,” Jane said. She looked petulant, now, rather than sad.

  I was rapidly filling notebook pages. “What happened?”

  “I left the envelope, just like he’d asked. Then I just— hung around the park. I was so depressed about leaving Lucien. And then guess what?”

  “What?”

  “Lucien showed up. He walked right into the Luxembourg, with a newspaper under his arm. I was in shock.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “Not then. He strolled in, all the time in the world, and took a chair next to that building where all the green metal chairs are, and people sit in the sun—”

  “The Orangerie.”

  “I guess. He sat down and opened the paper. I thought, This is the important appointment? He can’t be with me because he has to go read the paper in the park? I couldn’t believe it.”

  “What then?”

  “I thought maybe he was waiting for somebody, so I took a chair and watched. He’s sitting there reading. A lot of other people are doing the same thing: reading, playing checkers. This went on for quite a while.”

  “And did someone come to meet him?”

  “Nobody. Finally, I thought, this is ridiculous. He’d been reading the same page in his paper for about an hour. So I walked up, plopped down beside him, and said, ‘Hi, there’.”

  “Was he glad to see you?” I guess it was mean to ask.

  “Are you kidding? I thought he was going to have apoplexy. He said, like, ‘My God, what are you doing here?’ and I said, ‘Passing by,’ and he said, ‘You must go away. You must.’ His eyes were bugged out. He said, ‘Go away!’ Can you imagine?”

  I could. “So you left?”

  “Sure. I know when I’m not wanted.”

  Sure she did. “So that’s it?”

  “Not quite. I went off, but I sneaked back. I thought, if he’s meeting a woman I want to see what she looks like. He kept readin
g the paper for another long time. And then, all of a sudden, I saw him looking toward the fence, toward the place where I’d left the envelope. I looked, too, and I saw a man crouching there on the other side, the street side. Then whoever it was hurried away. Lucien walked to the gate. He was sort of hiding behind his paper. When he got to the gate, he took off after the guy, and that’s the last I saw of him.”

  Inspector Perret stirred, and I looked around at him. He was doodling on a piece of paper. Twinkie was asleep in his lap. He said in French, in a casual tone, “Darling? Ask her for a description of the man.”

  “Give me a chance, Gilles,” I said in French, and then, in response to Jane’s quizzical look, switched to English: “He wants to know if you’d like more brandy.”

  When she refused I said, “Did you get a good look at the other person?”

  “Not really. It was a guy wearing a cap. He was just a blur behind the fence and the shrubbery.”

  “Did you see where he went?”

  “Up the street. Away from the Rue Vavin. And Lucien went after him.”

  “You never saw Lucien again?”

  The tears welled. “No. He didn’t treat me right. I know that. But I still can’t believe he’s dead, and we’ll never get a chance to…to…”

  “To finish what you started.”

  “Yeah.”

  She stared glumly into space. The silence in the room was broken by Inspector Perret’s breathy, almost tuneless whistling between his teeth. He could possibly have been attempting “Frère Jacques.”

  “Well,” I said.

  She looked up. “What do you think?” Her spasm of grief had given way to other considerations.

  “Fascinating.”

  “Can you use it? And if so, do you think—”

  “I’ll have to see. Can I reach you at Bruno’s?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

  She would gladly have stayed longer, but I hustled her out. I closed the door after her and leaned against it. Inspector Perret and I had time to exchange a glance, but not to say anything, before the telephone rang.

  Two Calls

  It was Loretta, at the Good Look office in New York. I sank down on the bed. Unpleasant as ransoming the mirror promised to be, I’d have preferred that call to this one. Loretta and I had spoken after the incident at the Bellefroide, and she had been genuinely concerned for my welfare. This time, her tone indicated that she thought I’d gone too far. “Georgia Lee, I’m hearing the strangest things. I keep getting calls asking me if our ‘Paris Patter’ columnist is a thief and a murderer.”

  “Well, do you think I am?”

  The hesitation before she said “Of course I don’t” was a shade too extended, I thought.

  “Loretta, I’ve had some problems here, and—”

  “I should say! I understand you’ve been involved in a shady deal about that mirror and somebody else has been killed and the police have questioned you. What is this?”

  “It was unavoidable. It will blow over, believe me.”

  “When I agreed to let you do ‘Paris Patter,’ I never dreamed of contending with anything like this!”

  “Well, I’ve got news for you. Neither did I.”

  There was a short silence. I thought I saw the axe descending. “I have to make something clear to you,” she said.

  I gritted my teeth. “Yes?”

  “We cannot have Good Look dragged through the mud. We’ve worked too hard—”

  “Good Look will not be dragged through the mud.”

  “Having a thief and murderer on the payroll is not the image we want to project.”

  “I am not a thief and a murderer!”

  “It’s the impression we make that I’m talking about.”

  Maybe I was going to escape this time. “Look. You know you like ‘Paris Patter.’ This will blow over, Loretta. Trust me.”

  After we went back and forth a few more times, she finally agreed. “But if I see one more word about you in the Times…”

  “You won’t. Promise.”

  We hung up, and I punched the pillow with my fist. Dragging Good Look through the mud, indeed! I wasn’t a thief and a murderer, but even so I was just about ready to kill Loretta. Inspector Perret wasn’t there to inquire what was the matter, because halfway through the conversation he had disappeared into the kitchen. If he was looking for something to eat, he probably felt as let down in there as I did out here. I walked to the kitchen door and found him drinking a glass of water, which was about the only thing I had, besides cat food.

  I said, “Sorry about the phone call. It was my boss.”

  “There is trouble?”

  “Yes. She doesn’t like my being mixed up in these murders. She thinks it’s bad for her magazine’s image.”

  He chuckled. “It’s not a crime magazine, then?”

  I gave a weak smile. “No. And if she fires me, I’ll probably have to leave Paris.”

  He looked stricken. Obviously, he thought leaving Paris was a fate too horrible to be contemplated. “You want to stay?”

  “It’s a funny thing, considering all the trouble I’ve had,” I said, “but I really do.”

  On this wistful note, the phone rang again. As I went to answer it I knew, somehow, that it was the call I’d been waiting for. The man’s voice was muffled and far away, as if he were speaking from underneath several layers of bedcovers. “Georgia Lee Maxwell?”

  “Yes.”

  “You received the proof? Are you interested?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “Have you told the police?”

  “No. I haven’t said anything.”

  “Go to the Gare Montparnasse. On the arrivals side, on the platform level, are three telephone booths against the wall. Wait at the middle booth.”

  I had my mouth open to say something, although I’m not sure what, when the connection was broken. I hung up and turned to Perret, who was standing behind me. “I have to go to the Gare Montparnasse. Middle phone booth on the arrivals side,” I said. My own telephone was nicely bugged. I’d assumed I’d carry out this transaction in the comfort and privacy of my home. My pretend-boyfriend Perret wouldn’t send me out to the Montparnasse train station, would he?

  “One of my colleagues will follow you to the station,” he said. “I’ll leave here before you. I may have been seen coming in.”

  When I didn’t reply immediately he said, “All right?”

  “Sure. Fine.”

  “Good. We’ll be with you. I’ll see you here afterward.” He looked jubilant. He gave me a brisk “buck up” pat on the shoulder and then he was out the door.

  I said, “Don’t go,” but it was too late. By that time, he must have been halfway down the stairs.

  Following Directions

  The Gare Montparnasse is a monstrosity of modern design located behind the equally hideous Tour Montparnasse, the tallest building in Paris. These blights on the neighborhood were about ten minutes’ walk away.

  Outside, the early-evening autumn darkness had descended. I was bundled to the eyeballs against the chill but felt so exposed I might as well have been naked. I crossed the Boulevard Montparnasse to approach the station by the Rue de l’Arrivée. Scurrying along the shadowy arcade of the shopping center in front of the Tour Montparnasse, I kept my eyes straight ahead. I fervently hoped my police shadow was with me, but I couldn’t look around to check, for fear of alerting whoever else might be watching.

  I emerged on an uninviting windswept concrete plaza. Across it was the station, home-going throngs surging through its plate-glass doors. Those people were intent on catching the train, getting a good seat, arriving home, having a decent dinner— reasonable and enviable concerns. My main concern was not to forget or garble my instructions. Arrivals side, platform level, middle booth. I wasn’t sure exactly what it meant, but hoped it would be clear once I was inside.

  I was hyperventilating by the time I pushed through the doors and joined the stream to the u
p escalator. At the top was a huge, brilliantly illuminated room furnished with ticket machines, news vendors, coffee stands, information boards, and all the other elements you’d expect to find in a train station. Escalators and stairs mounted another half-flight to the left and right, and signs indicated that you had to go up to get to the platforms for arrivals and departures. I turned right, toward arrivals, and as I got off the escalator saw the three phone booths across a wide expanse of polished marble floor. They were against the wall, under a huge decorative graphic of red and blue cubes, next to vending machines, a coin-operated photocopier, and one of those cubicles where you can take your own picture. To the right, on the perpendicular wall, was a bookstore. A few people were standing around the phone booths in a ragged line. I crossed the floor, feeling like the perfect target.

  All the booths were occupied. I was supposed to wait for the middle phone, but there was only one waiting line. If it looked like I was trying to go out of turn I’d be risking mayhem on yet another front. I stood at the end of the line, shifting my weight every three seconds and craning my neck toward the middle booth. Suppose the person in there, a jowly, red-faced man in an overcoat who seemed engaged in a long harangue, finished his conversation. Was I meant to take possession of the booth then?

  People in the other two booths finished their calls. I moved up in line. The jowly man talked on. If it got to be my turn and another booth came free, I’d have to go to that booth. I’d pretend to make a call, then get in back of the line and try again. Why did these idiots give such hard-to-follow instructions?

  I surveyed the nearby scene. A uniformed gendarme gazed at the self-service photos. An Arabic-looking boy went by with an armload of yellow roses in cellophane cones. A rat-faced man in a loden coat consulted a Metro map. A woman in red leather pants browsed at the window of the bookstore. I moved up to first in line.

  The jowly occupant of the middle booth slammed the phone into the receiver and stalked away. All my limbs jerked, I rushed forward and shut myself in. By the time I got the door closed, the phone rang. I grabbed it and panted, “Hello?”

  “Georgia Lee Maxwell?”